by Rick Wood
“Show off,” Luke mumbled. Despite driving, he never took his eyes off the car.
“Some people, eh?” Amber confirmed.
“Yeah, some people.”
As the Mercedes drove toward the bus stop, it sped up. It veered toward the outside of the lane and drove through a puddle, a dirty puddle that left everyone at the bus stop drenched. Including a mother and child, an old lady, and a guy minding his own business, listening to headphones that were probably now ruined.
“The fucker,” Luke snarled. He veered across the lanes until he was behind the Mercedes and sped up to match its speed.
“Luke, what are you doing?”
“What am I doing? I’m following this prick.”
“Luke, please, come on.”
“I’m going to teach him a lesson.”
“Luke, let’s just go home.”
“Or at least I’m going to see where he lives.”
Amber knew her brother well enough to know that when his temper took over there was nothing she could say to change it.
Later on, she would come to wish that she had tried harder to argue with him.
She would wish that she had made him turn back.
4
He lifted the Normann Copenhgaen Cognac to his mouth and placed his lips around the Barwell Cut Crystad, welcoming the harsh sting of the alcohol against the back of his throat, drinking it down like it was milk to a baby.
He flicked across the next page of The Independent, tutting as he often sees people doing. There was another gentleman sat across the bar of the Sunnyside Hotel – he wasn’t staying there, it was just one of his favourite bars – and saw how the gentleman shook his head at his copy of The Guardian.
Strange, the news never seemed that bad to him. There was news of another killing spree by some wayward teenager in America, a tsunami somewhere in a country he couldn’t care less about, and a stock crash in–
A stock crash?
He shook the paper and looked again at the article.
Then he glanced at the date.
This newspaper was two months old.
He curled his lip and vigorously shook his head. He could feel himself getting more and more worked up, could feel his leg shaking in that way it did, his foot wagging as it balanced on his knee, his free hand grabbing onto his Jean Pierre Gold-Plated Tourbillon Cufflinks and pulling.
The impudence!
“Excuse me!” he called to a nearby waitress. Tall, slim, probably in her twenties, bottle-blond, attractive but a little chubby on the thighs.
“Yes, sir?” she asked. Her voice was so timid. Like she was scared to be talking to someone despite it being her fucking job.
“This newspaper is out of date.”
“Oh, is it?” she asked.
This riled him. That was not the reaction he was hoping for. Where were the apologies? The grovelling? The offer of something complimentary to make up for the sheer lack of attention to the intricacies of her job?
“Yes. Yes, it is,” he repeated, his voice stern and clear.
“We have more if you wish–”
“I could not give a damn if you had more,” he responded, his voice quiet but deadly, calm yet devastatingly clear. “I picked up this one, and it made me worried by what I read.”
“Would you like me to get you a new one?”
“No, I would not–” he looked at her name tag “–Daisy. I would not.”
“Okay. Well, if you do, let me know.”
“Don’t you dare go anywhere. Have you any idea what you have done?”
“Sir, as I said, I apologise.”
She walked away.
The foolish bitch walked away.
How dare she?
How fucking dare she?
He finished the last sips of his brandy, placed the newspaper neatly upon the table, stood, straightened his collar, and worked purposefully past the bar and into the street.
He looked up. A CCTV camera watched him step out of the hotel. He took a few steps until he was out of sight, then doubled back through a nearby back alley, circling the adjacent building until he was at an exit.
In that back alley, he waited.
Unnoticed. Untouched. Uncaring about the patience required.
It took around forty minutes but, eventually, she came out.
She didn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with taking a bin bag to the dumpster. As she turned to go back in, she noticed him and jumped.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re not supposed to be back here.”
He strode toward her without saying a word, took hold of the back of her hair, and drove her head into the dumpster, flinching at the rancid smell.
She blinked a few times, as if trying to pull herself from a daze. He took a clump of hair, dragged her to the brick wall of the alley, and he drove her head into it again, and again, and again.
He let her drop to the floor, pulled out his Robin Silk Twill Handkerchief – annoyed that he was going to ruin it but assuring himself he had more at home – and wiped a few splodges of blood from his right shoe.
Taking hold of her hair, he dragged the groggy slut across the rough surface, ignoring the moans as her distant mind acknowledged the pain of being dragged through the scrapes and bumps of a dirty alleyway. He had to pass more dumpsters and they stunk and he became so full of hatred for her because of it that he had to stop himself from killing her before he had his apron on.
He was not going to mess up his suit for her.
His Mercedes-AMG Project One, dark silver, hatchback, sat a few yards away from the alley’s opening.
He dropped her hair, walked up to the boot and opened it. He shoved a few things aside – his Base A20 GA Headset Headphones, a bag of spanners and other tools, and a wrapped birthday present he meant to give to his sister but never did and now he’d forgotten what it was. Probably some shit book about two people falling in love in dire circumstances, or a box of fancy chocolates she wasn’t worth.
He returned to the alley and hoisted her over his shoulder. With one hand he kept her balanced, and with the other he held her head to ensure no blood spoiled his collar.
He looked back and forth from the alley and waited for some teenager with earphones in to turn the corner, and a runner wearing green top and shorts so tight they should be illegal to pass. Then, with quick pace and expert precision, he placed her in the boot and shut it.
He took to the driver’s seat, turned the key and listened to the engine purr. He pressed his foot upon the accelerator and spun around the corner.
As he approached a bus stop, he made sure to veer into the adjacent puddle, enough to drench all the people waiting for their transport. He chuckled as he watched them in the rear-view mirror. So angry about such a little thing some guy in a Mercedes had done.
Little pleasures, eh?
He put in his favourite CD, and turn it up as loud as the car would allow. It was Josh Grobin’s Bridges album, the deluxe version, and he fast-forwarded to track four: Musica del Corazon, featuring Vicenten Amigo.
Damn, he loved that song.
5
Amber had always been the voice of reason to Luke’s madness. His company had always made her feel safe in scary situations, but without his company she was far less likely to end up in scary situations.
Despite the clutching of the seat and the wide-eyed stare at the rear-end of the Mercedes, Amber was still a little intrigued.
As a child, she’d dreamt about living a life where everything was easy. Her mum was a successful business woman for most of her childhood, then struggled after she was laid off, and began to grow sick during Amber’s adolescence. All her mum’s savings had gone toward trying to maintain the life they knew, but that did little to stop the struggle. Amber would tell her mum it was fine, that she didn’t need the new iPhone or latest clothes for Christmas, that she’d settle for some book that, deep down, she wasn’t interested in reading. Then she’d go up to her room, climb into bed, c
lose her eyes and imagine: being someone hugely successful, or a celebrity, maybe a pioneer or entrepreneur, someone who was an influence to all the other women in the world struggling to have their voices heard. She’d earn so much money she’d be able to give loads away to charity and have it mean nothing.
And, most of all, she’d use her wealth to help struggling teenagers trying to take care of a sick mum.
Luke slowed the car down. They had been driving for almost fifteen minutes, yet it seemed like they’d entered a whole new world. Every house on the street could fit five of her mum’s houses in. They were so far apart, gated, with driveways longer than many roads.
The Mercedes came to a stop outside of the biggest gate. A hand reached out and tapped a few numbers into a keypad, the gate opened, and the car drove inside, disappearing into a driveway surrounded by trees. Despite the large cluster of trees, the top of his mansion was still visible in the distance.
The gate closed and they were left outside, unknowingly glaring at the path of the car.
“Imagine,” Luke said, quietly, almost to himself.
“Yeah,” Amber conferred.
“Just…how come dickheads like him get places like this, y’know?”
“I know.”
She saw that look on his face. The one she’d seen when they were at school and a teacher tried to tell him off, or another student made a comment that struck a nerve.
“Come on,” she urged him, worried about where this was going to go. “We’ve seen where he lives. We can go now.”
“How good would it be,” he said, disregarding her rationality, “to teach this guy a lesson?”
“Is it worth it?”
“Fuck yeah, it’s worth it. To show this arse-wipe that he don’t own the world, that he don’t own us, that he don’t go spraying people at a bus stop just waiting to go to their boring jobs.”
“Luke,” she said, and he recognised the tone. When they were at school, and he was getting worked up, the only thing that could calm him down was her. Sometimes teachers even went to another classroom to find her, knowing she was the only voice he’d listen to.
“Yeah, all right,” he said.
She caught sight of the time in the dashboard.
“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed. “Mum’s hospital appointment is soon.”
“Her hospital appointment?”
“Yes, I’m taking her to Worcester General.”
“Ain’t that, like, two bus rides away?”
“Three. But we’ll take the train.”
“I thought the doctors said there’s nothing else they can do for her. That it’s all through her body.”
“Yes, but that was Gloucester General–”
“And how many hospitals is that now?”
She huffed. She didn’t want to hear it.
“This would be the fourth.”
“Amber, man, you just got to let it go.”
“Let it go? That’s Mum you’re talking about.”
“I love her, and I’d do anything I could to help her – if there was anything I could do. But what you’re doing, it ain’t healthy.”
“I… I have to try.”
He sighed. Turned back to the steering wheel.
“It’s not good for you,” he spoke. She could hear true concern in his voice. Despite their faults, she was lucky to have some family that cared for her.
“And following a guy back to his house just because he soaked a bunch of people is?”
“The guy’s a dick.”
“And so what? What were you planning to do if there wasn’t a gate there? Get out and pummel him?”
“Maybe.”
“You have no idea who he is. He could be some psycho or have a weapon on him or something.”
His eyes turned back to the gates, peering up at the top of the mansion, at the impressive architecture that encircled the top of this guy’s oversized abode.
Resolved to let it go, Luke put the car in gear and drove away.
Finally, Amber let her breath go, unaware that she’d been holding it.
6
By the time Luke dropped Amber off and left to do whatever it was he did in the evenings – something Amber liked to remain blissfully ignorant of – they were already running late for her mum’s hospital appointment.
“Mum!” she called out as she stepped through the door. She could smell the stench of a long shift clinging to her clothes like musk and she was desperate to change out of them. “Mum, I’m home!”
She didn’t expect a response, of course. Her mother wasn’t able to muster the energy to shout a greeting nowadays. It was just nice to let her know that she was home.
She picked up the mail and sorted through it. It was all bills, all final warnings, the same old stuff. She dumped them on the shoe rack and walked through, switching on all the lights.
She found her mum in the living room, sat in her chair, her head lolling on her shoulder, her eyes peacefully closed.
She hated this image. Not because her mum shouldn’t have rest; she needed a lot of it. It was because whenever she returned from work to this sight she was never sure whether it was her mum resting, or her mum dead.
“Hey,” Amber said softly, cupping her mum’s face in her hands. Her pale skin was cold, the dried sweat on her hairless head glinting in the living room light.
“Hey, Mum. Wake up. It’s me.”
Her mum didn’t respond and she began to panic. She placed two fingers on the side of her neck as the doctors had shown her. There was still a pulse, albeit a faint one.
“Mum, come on,” she said, shaking her as gently as she could.
Her mum groaned and turned her head.
“That’s it, Mum, come on.”
Her eyes vaguely opened.
“It’s me,” Amber said.
A weak, timid smile crossed her mum’s face.
“Listen, I’m going to get changed and then I’m going to put you in your wheelchair and take you to the hospital. You have an appointment at seven, remember?”
Her mum seemed to attempt a nod, but the nod faded as her eyes closed once more.
“I’ll get you some water, but I need you to try to wake up.”
It was no good. Her head had fallen onto her shoulder once more.
Amber took her mum’s glass from the side-table and paced to the kitchen. She brought the full glass back and placed it in her mum’s hand.
“Can you feel that?” Amber asked.
Her mum’s eyes opened again, very slightly, and Amber gripped her mum’s fingers around the glass.
“This is water in your hand,” Amber told her.
Her mum nodded.
“I need you to drink it while I get ready, okay?”
A faint nod.
Amber ran up the stairs and changed as quick as she could. Most of her clothes were in the wash and she didn’t have much choice. She put on a pair of jeans that were ripped, hoping that the rips could pass as a fashion choice. She put on a white vest she found then covered herself with a hoodie – one with the name of a band she liked when she was thirteen. It had become tattered and faded in the last five years, but it wasn’t like she could go out and get a new one, so she shoved it on and darted downstairs.
Her mum’s eyes were closed, her head on her shoulder, a patch of water on her leg and the glass rolling across the floor.
Deciding not to bother waking her, she attempted to move her unconscious body into her wheelchair. It took her longer than she had time for, but it wasn’t like there was much to her mum to lift anymore.
She had missed the train, so she had no choice but to take the three bus rides.
She arrived at the bus stop outside her house just as the bus was indicating to pull away. She waved a spare arm, the other one pushing her mum, and shouted for the bus driver to stop. Luckily, he did. People were often more sympathetic to her when she was with her mum.
By the time they actually arrived at the hospital she was shivering f
rom the cold and sweating from the worry. They could not miss this appointment. They just couldn’t.
“Hi,” Amber said to the receptionist who seemed to care more about her needlessly long nails than her job. “Elsie Michaels, here for an appointment at seven.”
The receptionist glanced at the clock over her head that read 7.06 p.m.
“You’re late,” she grunted, her gnarly voice matching her nails.
“Yeah, we had to take three buses, sorry.”
“Right. Okay. We’ll see if the doctor can still see you.”
You mean he won’t see a sodding cancer patient because of six minutes?
Amber wanted to voice her thoughts.
Wanted to shout her objections.
But the words just stayed in the prison of her mind.
“If you’d like to take a seat,” the receptionist said, following a few beats of silence Amber wished she had filled.
Curling her lip and clutching her mum’s wheelchair, she parked her mum and sat down.
She didn’t realise how tired her legs had been until her bum hit the plastic cushion. It wasn’t just the physical weariness of being on her feet all day or of pushing around her mum – it was the tension, the constant grip of her muscles, the constant shake of her legs.
Across from her was a woman, probably eighteen, about her age. She was slumped down in her seat, face like a smacked child, staring at the screen of her phone. Next to her was her mother, probably about Amber’s mum’s age, looking over her daughter’s shoulder, trying to engage her in conversation she was unwilling to partake in.
Amber hated that girl.
Hated her for ignoring her mother. Hated her for not paying attention. Hated her for the attitude wiped across her face.
Amber wondered if, had her mum never fallen ill, she’d be sat here with the same posture and the same unwillingness to give attention to a parent who loved her.
She couldn’t decide: was she hateful, or jealous?
“Elsie Michaels,” said the voice of a doctor, a good-looking man in his thirties.
Amber took hold of her mum’s wheelchair and followed the doctor, hoping that this time would be different to the rest.